It's knowing that maybe this is the last time I'll ever see him that sends
little electric shocks from my shoes to my brain. I'm numb momentarily,
finding myself unable to say anything until three words finally escape my
lips. "Thanks, Prince Charming."
And then off he goes with Bobbo the carriage man, grinning suavely my way one last time.
--
You've heard about it. You've seen it in movies, read about it in books, had those gushingly annoying friends who talk about it. "The One." The one you're supposed to meet, fall in love with, and spend the rest of your life having kids and making dinner and finally ending up in the land of hearing aids and walkers with. The one who, when they walk into the room, suddenly brings sunlight into your world and makes you want to dance like Gene Kelly down the sidewalks of New York.
Yeah, well, I've never believed in "The One." To me, "The One" is like a myth or something, a Greek fable told just to give us some hope. Especially us in this city, where hope can run low pretty damn quickly. "The One" has always seemed to elude me.
But then she smiles at me and in her little chipmunk-Dietrich voice she says, "Thanks, Prince Charming." Damn you, Miranda, for having your kid tonight! There are so many unsaid volumes of words that I've got to exchange with her.
"Thanks, Prince Charming."
She left me in this idiotic "romantic" contraption with a man named Bobbo and a white horse clip-clopping ridiculously down busy streets. Call me a cynic, but I don't see the romance. Horses shit huge piles and that guy named Bobbo must not have much else in store for him. He drives a damn white horse all day long, for Christ's sake! A carriage with sappily happy couples kissing in the backseat fulfilling their American dreams. Yeah, right. Great, Bobbo.
I lean back, closing my eyes for a minute just to savor her face as she hurried into the hospital. Carrie, Carrie, Carrie. What do I think about you, Carrie? Are you "The One"? Why is it that we always come back to one another? Always, like two magnets, we drift and come together, drift and are pulled back together by some unseen force.
Two drifters, off to see the world. . .
Henry Mancini plays in my head and for a moment I fantasize that you're my own personal Holly Golightly. God, Carrie, why do you haunt me so? You and me, we're forever intertwined, I guess. The cynic and the hopeful. Like a twisted Romeo and Juliet.
There's such a lot of world to see. . .
Now I'm leaving you. You don't know it. You think you'll meet me tomorrow morning after Miranda has that damn baby and persuade me to stay. But I can't stay, Carrie. I can't stay because of you. You hold me here, you'll hold me here until I find the courage to sever my ties. We can't go on like this. I love you, but I can't love you the way you want to be loved. I'm not dependable like Aidan. But I wish I could be, Carrie.
-- You know that phrase, "If you love something, let it go; if it comes back, that's how you know it's true"? That, delicately inlaid over the wistfulness of "Moon River," is what's racing through my brain as his figure slowly retreats, the clop-clop of the horse's hooves the pattern of my heartbeat.
There goes my Prince Charming and my white horse driving off into the neon sunset. There goes my last chance at fairytale endings.
And then off he goes with Bobbo the carriage man, grinning suavely my way one last time.
--
You've heard about it. You've seen it in movies, read about it in books, had those gushingly annoying friends who talk about it. "The One." The one you're supposed to meet, fall in love with, and spend the rest of your life having kids and making dinner and finally ending up in the land of hearing aids and walkers with. The one who, when they walk into the room, suddenly brings sunlight into your world and makes you want to dance like Gene Kelly down the sidewalks of New York.
Yeah, well, I've never believed in "The One." To me, "The One" is like a myth or something, a Greek fable told just to give us some hope. Especially us in this city, where hope can run low pretty damn quickly. "The One" has always seemed to elude me.
But then she smiles at me and in her little chipmunk-Dietrich voice she says, "Thanks, Prince Charming." Damn you, Miranda, for having your kid tonight! There are so many unsaid volumes of words that I've got to exchange with her.
"Thanks, Prince Charming."
She left me in this idiotic "romantic" contraption with a man named Bobbo and a white horse clip-clopping ridiculously down busy streets. Call me a cynic, but I don't see the romance. Horses shit huge piles and that guy named Bobbo must not have much else in store for him. He drives a damn white horse all day long, for Christ's sake! A carriage with sappily happy couples kissing in the backseat fulfilling their American dreams. Yeah, right. Great, Bobbo.
I lean back, closing my eyes for a minute just to savor her face as she hurried into the hospital. Carrie, Carrie, Carrie. What do I think about you, Carrie? Are you "The One"? Why is it that we always come back to one another? Always, like two magnets, we drift and come together, drift and are pulled back together by some unseen force.
Two drifters, off to see the world. . .
Henry Mancini plays in my head and for a moment I fantasize that you're my own personal Holly Golightly. God, Carrie, why do you haunt me so? You and me, we're forever intertwined, I guess. The cynic and the hopeful. Like a twisted Romeo and Juliet.
There's such a lot of world to see. . .
Now I'm leaving you. You don't know it. You think you'll meet me tomorrow morning after Miranda has that damn baby and persuade me to stay. But I can't stay, Carrie. I can't stay because of you. You hold me here, you'll hold me here until I find the courage to sever my ties. We can't go on like this. I love you, but I can't love you the way you want to be loved. I'm not dependable like Aidan. But I wish I could be, Carrie.
-- You know that phrase, "If you love something, let it go; if it comes back, that's how you know it's true"? That, delicately inlaid over the wistfulness of "Moon River," is what's racing through my brain as his figure slowly retreats, the clop-clop of the horse's hooves the pattern of my heartbeat.
There goes my Prince Charming and my white horse driving off into the neon sunset. There goes my last chance at fairytale endings.